


To Love And Be Loved

by denmarklovesnorway



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fluff, Historical Romance, M/M, historical fiction - Freeform, historical gay romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 11:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19972981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/denmarklovesnorway/pseuds/denmarklovesnorway
Summary: “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte—“You spoil me,” Warren hummed softly, bringing Wesley’s lips down to kiss them.“You’re a narcissist,” the boy stood up straight to run his fingers through Warren’s hair. Wesley laughed softly as he tilted his chin up, placing a kiss on Wesley’s arm.“And you’re a coward,” Warren announced, clearly in jest, his nose still pressed against Wesley.“Why don’t you get off that couch, I’ll show you which of us is a coward,” Wesley said calmly, rolling his sleeves up. “Come on, then.”“No, I don’t think I will,” Warren mused, shrugging his shoulders, leaning his head back, “But you're welcome to join me on the chaise lounge.”Wesley, without hesitation, climbed on top of Warren. He held the sides of the boy’s face, pulling him into a sweet kiss, holding him close, resting their heads together, before shifting to lay next to him, one arm lazily around his waist.“You’re a coward for not wrestling me.”A historical gay romance with no tragedy, just two men in love.





	1. chapter 1 — to the countryside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> your informal introduction to Wesley Ogden and Warren Durham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was aiming for 2k words, and managed to miss it by a couple hundred
> 
> either way, it's just the beginning, the chapters will be longer eventually & the story will be more developed
> 
> comments are just as important as kudos! tell me what you think, what you liked, what you disliked, it helps me improve as a writer!

“I’ve had the most marvellous idea,” Wesley started, rushing to be by Warren’s side as he walked. 

“Have you? You’re a thinking man now?” Warren smiled at the boy beside him, his remark clearly in jest. Wesley ignored it, as he always did, and instead linked arms with Warren in an attempt to keep up with him. Warren walked quickly, he always had somewhere to be, people to talk to, business to attend to, and it rarely left time for Wesley. 

“My aunt has a cottage,” Wesley was ridiculously full of joy, “It’s in Newcastle— or nearby, anyway, and she wants to visit here, in London, and I offered to tend to her garden while she’s away.”

“A thinking man and a gardener?” Warren mused, “I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into.”

He didn't slow his pace. Wesley stopped dead in his tracks; his arm tightly around Warren’s caused him to jerk to a halt. He spun around to look at the shorter boy, clearly upset. 

“Are you listening to me?” Wesley asked, “We could hide away, just for a week, not even— I have to talk to my aunt, but—!” 

Warren cut him off, “You’re not listening to yourself,” he snapped, “Are you daft? Do you understand who I am— who my father is? I can’t take a week away from him, just to run to the country with a dirty mail boy.”

“I’m not a mail boy, and you damn well know that,” Wesley let go of Warren’s arm, his hands dropping to his sides just to play with the hem of his jacket. 

“My love,” Warren whispered, taking a moment to look around them before he cupped the boy’s cheek in his hand, putting their foreheads together, “I can't afford a holiday, not yet.”

“You just don’t want to,” he pulled Warren’s hand off his face and let it drop, taking a step backwards as heavy footfalls could be heard coming down the hallway. Each step was accompanied by the tap of a cane, and Wesley took a second step backwards. 

There, below the high, arched ceilings, stood a stern, stout man, who seldom smiled and never needed to ask twice. Wesley averted his eyes, finding his jacket’s edge more and more interesting as the boy he loved turned to face the suffocatingly authoritative figure. 

“There you are, my boy!” His voice boomed, echoing magnificently, “You’re late! I shouldn't have to go looking for you, you're better than a vagabond. Haven't you got a timepiece?”

“I do, father,” Warren nodded, slipping his pocket watch from its home to check the time, “It seems I’m hardly late. You're eager, and it’ll be the death of you.” 

The man, seemingly jolly and kind, laughed heartily, walking with his gold-tipped cane to the boys. He looked Warren up and down, before reaching his free hand up to adjust his son’s tie. 

“Was the mail boy holding you up?” He asked calmly, looking down his nose at Wesley. That look was the only hint to the man’s malevolent nature for those who didn't know him. 

“No, father,” Warren said quickly, “He was giving me a letter, that’s his job. You’re going to be upset with me and an employed man for his employment?” 

“No, no!” The man laughed again, “Dear, no! Were you chatting? Handing off a letter takes seconds.” 

Wesley’s ears burned from the accusatory tone, and if he were a smarter man, he would've stayed silent. But he was bold, and Warren did admire that, thought it was stupid to be bold around a man like Warren’s father. 

“Yes, sir,” he smiled brightly, “The young master asked me my thoughts— he’s been invited to a cottage near Newcastle for a holiday, and I thought it sounded lovely. He worried you’d disapprove, what with how hardworking you are, and he is, and I said you were a kind man— surely you’d let him take a holiday. My dad always said, ‘It’s good to let boys enjoy their youth’, sir.”

The man’s eyes hardened, looking through Wesley to his very soul, and Warren was doing the same; while one stare was out of hatred, the other was from worry. 

“I didn't worry about your approval,” Warren sighed, “I said I shouldn't accept the invitation. We’ve too much to do, is all.”

Warren's father smiled, shook his head, and clapped Warren fondly on the back, “You need only ask, my boy! I can handle business, I started long before you were born and I’ll continue long after you’ve moved away. Go! Take a holiday, take a break, a rest, a lovely week in the countryside could do you good!” 

Wesley looked to Warren with a tight-lipped smile, bowing slightly, “You’re lucky to have such a kind father. I best get back to work, sir, I’ll be off,” he turned to bow to Warren’s father, and he walked away in the opposite direction. 

—

Warren’s left hand held the door’s turned knob, pulling it closed while his right hand gave the resistance to silently shut the door. Very, very carefully, he turned the knob back, the delicate clicking of the mechanisms as he turned the lock were the loudest thing in the room. 

He smiled as he turned to see Wesley, sprawled out on the bed with a book in his hands. As swiftly as he could, Warren undid his tie, his collar, pulling out his cufflinks, shedding his jacket, rolling up his sleeves, just to kneel beside the bed. 

Before he could say anything in greeting, Wesley spoke, “Your father really thinks I’m the goddamn mail boy?” 

“He doesn't much care what one does, if one isn't his equal,” Warren rested his head on beside Wesley’s arm. Wesley moved, sitting up slightly to play with Warren’s hair, his other hand setting his book aside, “And you know he has very few equals. It doesn't matter if I tried to tell him, either.” 

“Have you thought about it?” Wesley turned to lay on his side, eye to eye with his lover. 

“You lied to my father,” a soft laugh escaped Warren’s lips. It was really genuinely amusing, at least to Warren; men didn't lie to his father. His father was a beast of a man, a force to be reckoned with, and Wesley had lied to him. 

“I did not!” Wesley threw his hand up in annoyance, “I told the truth! You've been invited to the country for a holiday, that’s true!”

“You’re pesky,” Warren whispered, smiling even as Wesley tugged on his curly hair as punishment for the playful comment. “I like pesky.”

The two sat still for a moment, gazing at each other with love and longing, trusting one another to keep the silence. The dimly lit room caused their faces to look terribly dramatic with the shadows the lamp cast. Because the window couldn't be open— what they were doing required the upmost secrecy— the room was warm, but neither of them could be bothered by it. For all they cared, it was the other man who made their cheeks hot, and only him.

As if Wesley was a small animal, Warren stood up very slowly, as not to startle him. Wesley closed his eyes, but smiled when he felt a warm hand on his face, holding his cheek, and he laughed when he felt soft lips on the other side of his face. Then it disappeared. 

When he sluggishly opened his eyes, Warren was across the room, at the desk, shuffling through papers. Work seemed to follow him wherever he went, be it his chambers or the streets or the small room he and Wesley tucked themselves away in. 

“Have you thought about it?” Wesley repeated himself, head lazily resting on his shoulder as he lazily rested in the bed. 

“Have you written to your aunt yet?” Warren didn't turn around. Part of Wesley felt heartbroken, the fact that they had an opportunity to escape for just a moment, just a breath, and Warren’s worry kept them from it. 

“No,” he sighed, “I was waiting for you.” 

Very suddenly, Warren spun around, clapping his hands together, “You best hurry then, my love, the sooner your aunt comes to visit, the sooner we can take a holiday.” 

Grinning, Wesley let out a happy laugh, “You’re such a rotten man, Warren, you let me think you were going to say no!” 

He crawled out of the bed, running to Warren, wrapping his arms around him and kissing him as hard as he could. A holiday in the countryside with the love of his life was the most wonderful thing he could think of, and it wasn't just slipping through his fingers, it was a reality. 

Warren gingerly pushed him away, putting a pen in his hands and motioning to the desk, now cleared of anything unimportant. He patted the blank stationary, kissing Wesley’s cheek, “Well? Go on then, love. I’m going to put on a nightshirt, and in the morning, I’ll send off my mail boy with the post.” 

“Call me a mail boy again, Warren, I’ll knock your teeth in,” Wesley warned, already writing away. Warren playfully sucked air in through his teeth, sighing in disappointment. 

“What does that make you? A thinking man, a gardener, and a horse? You're a Renaissance man,” he kissed the top of Wesley’s head. 

“And you're a great bother to a man trying to take you on holiday,” Wesley finished the sentence he was writing and looked up, throwing one arm over the back of the chair to better look at Warren. Warren, mimicking his smile, leaning down to kiss him. 

Wesley, turned in a chair, and Warren, bending down over the man, stayed like that for a long moment, bodies close, hearts full, lips faintly touching. A moment like this felt sacred, something as delicate as a hushed whisper but as powerful as a shout. They didn't get very many moments like this, and if anyone were to find them, Wesley would be whisked away to some sort of punishment and Warren would lose his place in the world. They could be pulled away, and never be able to see one another again, but in this moment, that didn't matter. 

Their only thoughts were of trust and happiness, of understanding, of unadulterated love. That was enough. That was all they needed, Warren’s father be damned, the world be damned, they were happy.


	2. chapter two — in a cottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wesley finally whisks his lover away to a little cottage in the countryside. Warren is stuck up.

“You didn't tell me your aunt kept chickens,” Warren set his bag down on the worn wooden floor as Wesley closed the door behind them. The quaint little house was underwhelming, if you asked Warren. It was small and dingy; he would've complained, if he hadn't genuinely been excited to spend time with Wesley, all on their own.

“Well, it’s no matter,” Wesley replied, walking ahead, opening the shudders and then the windows, “You feed them, you water them, you collect the eggs. I used to do it for her every summer when I was younger.”

“I assumed we’d be tending to a garden,” Warren sat down at the kitchen table, looking at the papers scattered about. A few were letters to Wesley, a few were to Wesley’s mother, but all of them were in a hand Warren had never seen before. 

“There's that, too! She has a flower garden, an herb garden, and a vegetable garden, we can split the work between us,” Wesley picked up a kettle and shook it, already getting comfortable. He opened it, peered inside, and then dumped the water out the closest window. 

Wesley, comparatively, adored his aunt's cottage. It was homely, it was warm— it felt like coming home after a long cold day to sit by a fireplace. Not only did he have very fond memories of visiting as a child, but it was a perfect place to live. If he could choose any life for he and Warren, he’d want them to grow old together in a little farmhouse in the countryside. 

“I was told this was going to be a holiday, my love, and the definition of holiday is not working,” Warren kicked his shoes off, only to prop them up on the table, eyes falling to the letters on top of it. He picked one up to study it, “Is your aunt educated?”

“What? I— yes, she's as educated as I am, I think. Warren, you've never properly worked a day in your life. That's one of the problems you've got, you don't understand labour the way I do,” Wesley knocked Warren’s feet off the table, “I’ll have you haul water for the gardens and collect eggs, you’ll appreciate the life you've got better.” 

“I’m not doing that,” Warren warned as he set the letter down, but Wesley was halfway out the door, “Where are you going!”

“Fetching water, like someone who knows work when they see it,” Wesley called back, already down the road with a bucket in hand. 

Warren, though a businessman, had never really worked. He knew that, Wesley hoped. He had a father who gave him everything, a life of comfort ahead of him, and it seemed he took that for granted. He was heir to a large, prospering company. If he wanted to remain a bachelor, he could. He could have anything he wanted, he hardly had to ask. 

Wesley would be sour about it if he wanted to, he thought to himself, waving good day to the widower along the way to the well, stepping carefully through a brood of chickens as they made their way across the weary gravel road. 

Oppositely, Wesley was a working man, he didn't lay around. He’d seen Warren hard at work outside of meetings, laying on his arse with a book over his eyes to conceal the fact that he was fast asleep. Wesley could never do that, just to turn around and complained he was worked to the bone. Warren’s house had running water and electricity every day of the year, whereas Wesley was lucky to walk to the privy in the warmer months. 

Once he returned, Wesley poured water into the kettle, setting it on the stove, “Warren, my love,” he turned around, “Would you get firewood from beside the house?” 

“Why?” He asked, his feet propped on the table, a book in his hands. He hadn't bothered to look up. 

“Because I got water from down the road,” Wesley answered. Warren looked up at him, terribly annoyed. 

“You said I’d be hauling water for the gardens and collecting eggs,” Warren closed his book, though he refused to set it down. 

“Yes, and opening the door, stepping out, picking up wood, and giving it to me. That's simple enough, Warren, you can follow directions,” Wesley didn't hesitate. If Warren was going to be rude, he was too. He could nag, just like Aarren. 

Warren stared, then laughed, turning away, “You’ve got an awfully bent attitude, darling. I’m not getting wood, I’m on holiday.” 

“Warren, I don’t really take holidays,” Wesley sighed, “I've never been to Germany or Austria or Italy or France like you. I’ve never taken a boat over the sea, I’ve never been on a boat, and if I was, I'd be working on it.”

“You’re upset because you work a job and you've never been out of England?” Warren’s attention was finally piqued. He set the book down and leaned forward, giving Wesley his full attention. 

“Yes, and you ride horses and play croquet. I don’t. My aunt used to have a draft horse, but he pulled a cart,” Wesley opened the door to the backyard, “And a holiday for me would've been feeding him a carrot instead of slaughtering a chicken.”

Warren didn't move. After a moment, he cocked his head to the side, “I just don't want to work while I’m on holiday. I don't understand why you're acting like this,” he hummed. Wesley motioned for Warren to step through the door. Neither of them were letting up. 

“Warren, you know I love you. You're very dear to me, I cherish every moment I spent with you and I pray I’ll get another— but you don’t work. Reading and talking to your father and doing arithmetic is not work,” Wesley said as he closed the door. He made his way to Warren, bending at the hip to look him in the eye. 

Gingerly, he held Warren’s chin, leading the man into a kiss that lasted for several long seconds. When he pulled away, Warren’s eyes were still closed, he was still smiling giddily. 

“Grabbing firewood, fetching water, feeding the animals, watering the garden— most of England— most of the world has to do these things every day, numerous times away. I’m asking you to step out of your castle, my liege, and live like I do,” he would've said more, if Warren hadn't already stood up. 

He looked at Wesley with curious eyes for just a second, then dramatically smoothed his hands over his waistcoat, fixing it, his mannerisms too much like his father’s.

“I suppose I want tea,” Warren announced, opening the door to the side of the house. When he returned, he had far more wood than was needed, but he’d done the chore nonetheless, “If you'll make it, I’d love a cup.” 

“Thank you, my love,” Wesley couldn't help but grin, directing Warren where to put the wood. 

That was the best he was going to get. Warren would never admit if he’d been bested— a bad habit he’d gotten from his father, no doubt— and even if he was sympathetic towards what Wesley was saying, he wouldn't say so. Acting like getting the wood was his idea in the first place, a task that served only him, was as close as Wesley would get to Warren being sympathetic. 

They sat in silence as the tea brewed, Warren reading over various letters on the kitchen table, Wesley upstairs preparing the guest bedroom. He was a good host in his aunt’s absence. When the kettle started to shout, he rushed down the stairs; Wesley was surprised to see Warren standing beside the stove, a steaming cup in his hands. 

“I was impatient,” he explained, “Are you shocked I know how to use a kettle?”

Wesley shook his head, smiling dumbly, “No, dear, I just thought you were on holiday. You don't make your own tea at home.” 

“Shocked that I know how to pour tea from a kettle, then,” Warren joked, before setting his cup down. He poured a second cup for Wesley, which was a gentlemanly gesture, as Warren didn't usually do things that didn't immediately please him. 

Wesley thanked him, taking his cup and then catching Warren’s hand before he could pull it away. With gentle, ginger touches, he lifted Warren’s hands to his lips, kissing his knuckles. 

“I’m not going to say it twice,” Warren said lowly, “But I apologise for being rude. I know we have different ways of life, and it’s… selfish of me to step into your life and complain about it.” 

Wesley nodded, eyes raking over Warren’s face. Voice soft, he replied, “Thank you. I love you, dear, and I am very lucky that we have this chance together.” 

It was odd for the two men to stand there, staring at each other— smiling fondly, silently taking the moment in. Of course, it came as no surprise when Warren plucked the tea out of Wesley’s hands, set it aside, and pulled the man’s body roughly against his. 

Far less odd, in a feeling very familiar, he held Wesley’s face, kissing him deeply, driven by Eros himself to treasure the man before him. The farmhouse felt more and more like home the longer they stood there, arms wrapped around one another, bodies pressed together, lips dancing. 

“Are you going to complain tomorrow, when I ask you to water the garden?” Wesley whispered, eyes closed, fingers in Warren’s hair. 

“It depends,” Warren laughed breathlessly, “Are you going to complain when I ask you if the bed upstairs is meant for us to share? May I ask if we can share it now?” 

Wesley couldn't help but chuckle, shaking his head. Warren was a lovely man. There wasn't a single soul he’d rather be beside. He carefully pulled away from Warren to say, “I’ll meet you up there, dear, I’m going to lock up the chickens so we can sleep without worrying about the little beasties.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i aimed for 1500 words instead of 2k and it worked out much better!! that's my new goal for writing
> 
> again— comments are greatly appreciated!! i absolutely love seeing what you guys think. it's my goal to make characters lovable dispite their flaws, and methinks im doing pretty well so far


End file.
